


blood running down the inside of her leg

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dracula Influence/References, F/M, Gothic, Religion, Torture, also shades of succubus Jyn, also witches, and persecution of witches, basically all the good stuff to be found in a Dracula AU, because all the good stuff, like i wasn't going to go there, priest Krennic, spitting venom against religion, vampire Jyn, what?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: He knows what she is the moment he sees her. A predator. And she’s come hunting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Do You Love Me? (Part 1)_ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
> 
> This was inspired by [jynnics' Dracula AU gifset](http://directororsonwelleskrennic.tumblr.com/post/152503563952/jynnics-then-i-give-you-life-eternal) only of course I had to flip it, partly by [a suggestion from poltergeistpriest](http://directororsonwelleskrennic.tumblr.com/post/152505327762/poltergeistpriest-replied-to-your), also in response to the succubus Jyn/priest Krennic prompt I submitted to the Jynnic Fandom Challenge, and serves as a complement to onstraysod's Halloween drabble.

She comes to him one sleepless night as he walks the grounds of the monastery. He knows what she is the moment he sees her. 

No, that’s not true. He wants it to be. But that first glimpse of her in the moonlight, surrounded by so much dark glimmering shadows of trees and stone walls -- for one foolish second, he had thought she was some unfortunate girl with filled belly and screaming conscience come to seek sanctuary.

And then he’d seen the sinuous curve of her hip and the gleaming length of white thigh as red silk draped away with each step. Red lush lips, coiled dark hair, white glinting teeth as she smiled at him, a predator, and he knew.

She’d come hunting.

That first time he’s arrogant, maybe even reckless. Away from his books and manuscripts, away from the stained glass and the incense, maybe this is finally his chance to be a warrior for his God. Rosary wrapped around his hand, he approaches, alert and steady. 

Her eyes are huge and brilliant, unearthly in the strange light, full of a malicious amusement as he draws closer. A prayer on his tongue, he breathes in and is flooded by the scent of her. It nearly sends him to his knees. She is all viscera and flesh, blood and female and arousal, the scent of copulating animals, of women wild-haired and naked and bleeding freely.

Only she is no ecstatic maenad. She watches him, lethal and poised and ever amused because he is no threat to her at all and she would play with her food a while.

“I know what you are,” he says, somewhat hoarse.

Her smile widens, delight in the dark gleaming eyes. “Do you? How charming. Do you know what I want?” 

She doesn’t sound anything like she should. She should be shrill and sibilant, a caricature of every woodcut in every pamphlet he’s seen. Instead her voice lilts like an accomplished young lady, sophisticated and just clever enough to not intimidate the silly young men in the assembly rooms.

“No,” she replies to what he doesn’t say. “Nothing as cliched as your soul, don’t worry. You can keep your little shred of a soul and give it to your silly little god in his gilded cage.” 

Appalled, he recoils and she laughs.

“My God is not --”

“Here?”

He’s so angry now he draws himself up to his full height, remembering himself, remembering his office and his robes, the years of learning and sacrifice. “My God has no place for you,” he sneers, matching her tone.

And then he wonders. “Is that why you’ve come here?” Maybe it is sanctuary after all, a twisted backwards sort of cry for help and redemption. He advances, thinking that maybe this is the secret, the undoing of her kind.

She doesn’t laugh this time, her eyes cold and serious. “You think I’ve come begging to be let back in? Into your male house of sanctioned hatred and strangulated desire?”

Her hand lashes out too fast and too white, and he’s flat on his back, the breath thudded out of him, horrified at the carnal fleshful weight of her astride his chest. “You have no words for what I am. None of your prayers, none of your theology, none of your fine male intellect can even begin to grapple with the truth of me. And it will be the undoing of you.”

That first time he doesn’t even see her go. He’s so shocked by her words, her blasphemy, that the next thing he knows is he’s alone in the dark greenery of the monastery grounds, not sure whether he’s been sleepwalking all this time, hallucinating.

He hallucinates her the next night and the next. Each time she comes to the doors of his balcony, her red gown fluttering around bare white legs, her feet scandalously naked. And he feels naked as he comes to the inside of the doors, moonlight drenching them both. She puts her hand on the glass and smiles at him. She doesn’t need to say it, he knows without being asked that she wants to be let in. And each time he wakes in his bed, sweating and gasping and hard, terrified for himself and his soul.

He hallucinates her at mass, in the heavy scent of flowers and incense, in the wavering candlelight and the glowing eyes of worshipful priests and congregants. He thinks he sees her moving among them, an impossible carnal creature hunting him with her eyes and her mouth and her intelligent silence like a spell.

Then one midnight as he holds vigil in the chapel, the stone floor freezing against his knees, he feels her approach. He can’t tell anymore if it’s a dream or waking, if it’s that unsteady place between. A single candle sputters in its iron holder as the door bangs open and a cold wind sweeps in. He thinks she’s come for him, that he’ll feel her cold white hand on his nape. His cock is hard beneath his robes, nausea and self-loathing twisting in his gut. But the candle flame strengthens and he casts a tentative look over his shoulder. 

She is on the threshold of the chapel, moonlight streaming behind her, outlining her form lithe and scarlet, and the hair that cascades dark and curling far below her shoulders. “Orson,” she says like it’s no surprise she knows his name. “Orson. Ask me.”

“Ask,” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, and then makes a desperate grab for composure, for his own hauteur. “I want nothing from you,” he spits. This is his ground, his battlefield, the saints and scriptures amassed at his consecrated back. 

She laughs, a golden beautiful sound that travels the short aisle to him through the darkness. “Orson,” she says with such warmth and tenderness. “You dream of me every night. Your every thought assaults me. Your body --”

He flinches, his hand moving in a sharp denial. And she laughs again, low, almost affectionate, like every dream he’s had of her has made her know him more. 

“Very well,” she says. “If you won’t ask me here and now, ask me later.”

Later in his dreams that come multiplied and vividly coloured. That night the doors are open when her foot touches the balcony floor. That night he opens his eyes to see her face bent over his as he lies in his hot snarled up bed. “Orson,” she says in her clever beautiful voice and her mouth bleeds onto his face. He wakes with a cry, and lurches out of bed to close the doors against the moonlight and the dark clouded skies. 

In his dreams she undoes her gown and shows him her slender white body with nipples red and pointed, with hair dark and secret between her thighs. He shakes and spills himself in his hand, choking on the agony and the pleasure. In his dreams she bends over him and her hair falls all around his face, thick and black like ropes of luxury, trailing down the skin of his chest, over his thighs and his aching cock. Her eyes speak to him, too much intimacy and knowledge, too unnerving a blend of wit and sensuality. She’s supposed to be an animal, bereft of divine or human intelligence, she’s supposed to be lesser than everything in nature. But instead he feels the weight of her penetrating gaze, he feels her weight on him but that’s not all he wants.

He thinks of her bleeding mouth with its sharp white teeth, of her bleeding cunt, her castrating cunt. If he kisses her, he will never be the same. He will never belong to himself again. And wretched unworthy creature that he is, he wants that. Even though he has given all of himself to purity and intellect, to everything good and holy and difficult, he knows he is flawed in that and it bleeds in him like a wound unstaunched.

It seems like she is constantly moving towards him, across some endless dark plain with the moon full and white behind her. She comes towards him, blocking the moon, blood a dark trickling stain down the white of her leg. He dreams of licking up her calf and her thigh, of following that scent of woman and wild, of sea and moon, right to the dark fragrant void of her cunt. He wakes, sobbing, and falls back asleep to dream of putting the silver filigree of his crucifix against the white skin of her chest, of watching her flesh redden and burn as it curls and pulls away from the sacred metal. In his dream, she arches her back and laughs up at him, delighting in his discomfort, in her own torture.

During mass, he takes up the holy water and is dizzied for a long awful moment. 

“Don’t you want to hurt me?” she asks, spreading her gown apart, red silk on his rumpled sheets.

“Yes,” he says on a ragged breath, hating himself, unable to hate her.

She laughs softly. “I wonder why.” Her cool fingers on his wrist, she guides his hand slowly towards her bared chest. The vial of holy water glints in the moonlight, the silver stopper round and smooth.

“Here,” she coaxes, and the drops hit her white skin like acid.

She gasps, her voice like poison, eyes the weird green of absinthe. “Do you think your faith made you this way? Father?”

She makes it sound like a perversion, makes him shudder inside, rejecting every vile sensation and insinuation. He wants none of this, he wants all of it, none of this corruption of his beloved soul, all of surrender to her. What he wants is to bring her into the light, to burn the evil out of her, so she is what she was before.

He wakes in the morning with that thought clear and bright in his head. It’s like the fresh breath of his thinking God, a way forward, a path to strike out in the darkness. So he turns to his books and manuscripts, to the records of history both recent and further back. He hunts her now through the annals of time, through tales of missing girls and slain women, so many of her race consigned to the margins of documentation, discarded by polite society and all but eradicated from memory. There are so so many girls dead and broken by the machines of an indifferent economy, at the hands of a beleaguered or intolerant family, the twisted agendas of their own mothers and sisters and friends, and at the brute hands of so many many men. It sickens him but he reads on, combs through to find that one description or name that will ring with recognition.

It takes him weeks and he still dreams of her, wakes to tiny stinging bites on the inside of his thighs and elbows and wrists. She feeds on him, on his blood and his sexual fluid spilled across his sheets or down her wet sucking throat. In his dreams, she crawls all over him with nails and teeth and hair, reeking of cunt and spunk, devouring the sight of his desire with her uncanny eyes. 

It takes him weeks and he finds her in the last place he expects. His sister says, “Oh those old drawings of yours, my goodness how you drew that creature over and over again. How obsessed you were with that story.”

Orson stares, frozen, at the sketch in his hand. “What, what story?”

“That old tale of your namesake and the witch girl. Come now, you can’t have forgotten!”

He is named after a distant ancestor, a great and terrible man who hunted witches a hundred years before. White caped and cold eyed, his namesake had scoured the land for unnatural creatures, and he had found plenty. He drowned them, staked them, even tried some and found them worthy of being put to death by whatever grisly means he favoured at the time. 

He was also the first to succumb to the Krennic family curse. Having lived long enough to marry and father children, the first Orson Krennic died in a freak accident, his cart overturning on some dark lane one stormy night. Since then, every male of the family has died in some violent and bloody fashion, frequently alone but occasionally with relatives unlucky enough to be with them at the time. The women survive quite happily if regarded with some suspicion. Not a single Krennic male has ever died peaceful in his bed at a ripe and happy old age.

Now Orson Krennic the younger flips through sheafs of drawings, and remembers the story of the witchfinder and the young girl who escaped his wrath. It had been one of the few anomalies in a uniformly bloodthirsty career. And even then the great man had considered it a victory, according to his private writings. What did one small scrap of a girl matter when both mother and father had been tried and found guilty of witchcraft and burnt alive? No, he had done his God’s will to the people before him, secure in the knowledge that the same thoroughly vengeful God would exact justice on the escaped child exposed to the elements.

Orson Krennic the little boy had drawn that little girl over and over again, captivated by the one that got away even as he answered his own calling. As he aged, so did she. Through the sketches and watercolours, the little girl grew taller and older. Her body filled out, her hair tumbled past her shoulders. Her eyes lost innocence and turned knowing, too clever for decorum. 

Now Orson realises. He has dreamed her all his life. 

This time when the chapel door blows open and the bank of candles ripple, tearing the holy air, he is waiting for her. The altar is at his back, his black robes secure and closed, the white collar protecting his scarred throat.

“Jyn Erso. I know who you are.”

At the threshold, she stares at him, expressionless. “Is that right?” His skin thrills to the dark lilt of her voice, instinctual and inexorable. “What exactly do you know? The official story told by the history books, the careless scribble in the margin?”

He blinks. “Very well, then. Tell me your story.” He says her name again in his head, feeling the unearthly beauty of it. She is bound by her own rules, unable to enter unless he invites her in. And though she’s invaded his dreams and conquered his body, now he keeps his mouth closed on the crucial words and feels his power.

She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes, dark and watchful like the predator she is. “You look exactly like him, you know.” Silent shock through him, and she continues. “The same cold eyes, the same cruel mouth. The same --” she gestures to his robes “--dramatic flair. Shall I tell you the first time I saw him? How he came with his cape billowing like some infernal heavenly warrior, so secure in his holy mission? He came with his Bible and his iron weapons and his vile suspicions --” 

She steps onto the stone floor of the chapel and her bare foot gleams white on the grey. He feels nearly faint. 

“-- and he ripped my family to shreds.”

She was always able to enter his sanctuary. 

“I watched them burn,” she tells him, advancing down the aisle, red silk slipping all over her body, the flesh he knows with a searing intimacy. “He had them tied to the stakes, bare feet on the heap of wood. My father wept at the end, after he pleaded for us, after he was tried and found unfit to be a father and husband and man, unfit to be human. He cried at the very end, and do you know what my mother did?”

She circles him at the foot of the altar, gold heat shimmering the air around her, all her attention weighed on him.

“My mother spat at your ancestor through the smoke and the flames as they rose. My mother cursed him with all the magic she didn’t have, she never had. They were people of learning, people who helped their neighbours, who looked at the world around them and tried to learn and help, and were burnt alive for it.”

She puts her palm against his cock, pulsing with hard blood in his robes, and he flinches, moans despite himself. She isn’t smiling now, she isn’t playing anymore. Her lush cruel mouth and her weird glittering eyes are all he sees, the smell of her filling his head. 

“I hid from him all the days of their trial and imprisonment, secret in the woods. From there, I saw them burn and I saw them scream and I saw them die. I saw you -- your ancestor ride out of the village with his Bible and his bloodied weapons and his poison mind. He had left me nothing, nowhere to go, no one to take me in.”

He sees it now. The little girl wandering the woods with her gnawing belly and her tear-stained face, trying to find food and shelter. The little girl creeping out of the woods to the towns and villages and eventually the cities too. What happened to you, he wants to ask, and maybe it shows in his eyes and expression. 

Because she smiles a small cynical smile and tells him. “There are predators in the cities too, you know. I was fifteen when she found me. But where your ancestor came in white with his religion and his flames, she came in white with her power and her darkness. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen after my burning mother, all smooth hair and madonna serenity after the snarl and ash of my mother.”

“She killed you,” he says with horrified understanding.

“She saved me.” Her hand slides up. And then down, the sensation nearly sending him to his knees. He feels saturated by her, her blood scent and blood heat and so much promise of wet and dark and hot. As he sways into her touch, his cock painful and oversensitised, she smiles enough that he sees the white gleam of her teeth and their promise of eternal oblivion.

“Ten years she kept me with her and taught me everything. Ten years before she finally gave me what I wanted, and made me hers.” 

She takes her hand away, making him whimper. But then her hand shoves into his hair and he is driven to his knees, slamming against the stones. She bends over him, the black ropes of her hair against his face, and murmurs, “That’s when I found you and yours. That’s when he died, just like all his sons after him, and all the sons of every generation. Like your father and your brothers. And now you, Orson. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Her strong hand pulls so his face tips back, so the moonlight hits his eyes and reveals his features to her devouring gaze. “You,” she says, touching his cheekbones with her lethal fingernails. “You who look just like him.”

“I’m not him,” he manages, terror and longing a toxin rushing through all his veins.

“No?” She strokes down to the corner of his mouth, touches his lips with nails like ice and glass. “You carry the same Bible, chant the same inhumanity in your heart and head. All the same lies and so much greed for power like you know anything about immortality. How are you not like him, Orson Krennic?”

His hand scrabbles up the front of his robes, gropes for the fastening at his throat. He tears the collar from around his neck and casts it aside, sees her eyes sharpen and narrow on his face. 

“Because I come willingly to you,” he says, his voice steady. “I have dreamed you all my life. I was yours first and have always been yours. Have me.”

She takes his body first, daring him with every touch to recoil and flee. In the chapel hot and hazy with candlelight and incense, glittering gold and dark wood and ivory fabric, he bares himself to her and is devoured by her knowing eyes and her clever hands and mouth. She lays him down on his robes cast across the cold stone floor, and he is kissed by her dangerous mouth for the very first time, tasting death and all the dark female sinfulness he’s wanted so much. Her hand in his hair, he tips his face up again in the way she likes and kisses her back with all his terrible desire. 

His desperation increases with every caress and every slick touch of her mouth on his skin. She bites gently at his nipples and laughs when he clutches at her, hands slipping on her silken cold curves. Sitting across his abdomen, she takes down the front of her red gown and shows him her white breasts with their red sharp nipples. She is exactly like in his dreams that were never dreams at all, and he knows that now as he reaches for her, desperate to be close to her skin, to be in her flesh, in her breath. As he kisses across her breasts, moaning and rubbing himself against her, shameless in his want, it seems as she touches him that she starts to understand. 

That maybe he really isn’t like all the others. Maybe all the others had screamed and fallen, had fought and fallen, had been trampled underfoot. All the blood of his family is on her hands and in her throat, soaked into her silk and skin. And as he draws up her skirts over her white parting legs, he understands. He will bleed for the family he stole from her.

She shudders when he kisses her cunt, when he licks into the dark red cold of her flesh with his hot wet tongue. Her hand twists in his hair, urging him on, urging him closer til he wants to crawl up inside her. Shaking all the way under his skin, he tugs at his own cock as he eats her out, as her smell marks his face and smears down across his chin. There’s approval in her smile as she lets him position his cock between her legs, as he strokes the swollen glistening head against the glistening red lips of her cunt. He wants her to beg for it, wants her as desperate as he is, but that won’t be now and here. It may never be. So he takes every moment he is given, and he pushes slowly into her watchful yielding female darkness.

He will cease to exist after this. The priest, the son, the brother, scholar and friend will be no more. And willingly he fucks all that away, as she gasps and reaches for him with her nails and her eyes and gold slipping through her long dark hair. “Orson,” she says and he answers with all his strength and carnal purpose, fucking her harder than he has or would with any human woman, fucking her til she’s writhing and moaning, her skin gleaming ivory and carmine, her mouth like a sucking wound, crying out with what he does to her. She scratches her nails up his chest, marking him with faint red and pain like white lightning. She digs her nails into the side of his throat and brings his face down to hers, her eyes wild green and vicious consuming like she documents every reaction, every deed. His hands cruel on her breasts, he bites around her nipples and fucks her hard on the stone flags. In his God’s house, before the sacred altar, all the saints and martyrs looking down on them, he holds her terrible beautiful face and kisses her as his cock drives into her engulfing cunt, all the candlelight and incense moving over them.

She takes his life as he comes, as he’s shuddering into her, too much emotion and too much hot spunk, and then too much blood because she’s just turned her face and bitten into his throat. He hardly realises until he feels the slipperiness between them, until he realises that she is fastened there, greedy and sucking at the wound. He can’t tell if he’s coming because of the copulation or this, the sudden roar of release through his body as he comes and comes into her, and bleeds and bleeds into her. She holds him to her with cunt and mouth and nails, suffocating him with her scent. His hands struggle to stay on her, the light going dim, his body failing and falling. His mind is full of her and it will die curled around the fullness of her. She lays him back down at the foot of the altar and leans over him, watching with interest. His blood is smeared red across her white chin and beautiful mouth, his hand grasping feebly at the sleek cold contour of her thigh. The words are slipping away, his great and powerful intellect falling to tatters, all of him reduced to blood pooling on a cold stone floor, glad that she is the last thing he sees.

“Ask me, Orson. Ask me now.”

She says it with some faint surprise, like it’s only just occurred to her. And he can’t speak, all he can do is lift up his face, asking with his eyes and his soul. Asking the impossible for the smallest and most important reason in his changed world.

She touches his face with something like understanding, as if she sees him anew, a realisation. And through his darkening vision, he sees her draw a sharp fingernail across the upper curve of her breast. White curve, red erect nipple, and the blood that trickles vivid and dark, dripping all along the cut. She lifts his head and brings him to her breast, it’s so very wrong and everything he wants. Her blood touches his tongue like a flicker of iron and flame, and she tears the wound wider, tears it til it’s a gash of open flesh and spilling into his mouth, spilling so much down his greedy throat. He fastens to her, arms and mouth, her fingers tangled in his hair, her legs locked around his hips, and he feels himself change, harden, wanting to fuck her as he feeds on her. The light turns gold, every colour so much richer than before, her deep green eyes watching him with discovery, dark hair swerving across her white forehead. He takes her blood into him, and she in all her fierce wonder takes his little shred of a soul willingly given.

When he wakes three days hence, it will be far beyond the stone walls of the monastery, far beyond the moneyed comfort of his family home and all polite society. He’ll wake in a wide high bed of crimson hangings, the glimmer of diffused daylight at the clouded windows. And he’ll turn and bury his face against the smooth white contour of her throat, breathe in the scent of her hair, gladness stampeding through him. He’ll be hungry and she’ll teach him to feed on living creatures, small animals at first and then small children, until he reaches full strength and able to roam out of the castle, out of their home. White caped and cold eyed, he will be consort to her brilliant glittering darkness. And maybe they’ll lay scourge to the modern world with its waking machines and its new sciences of body and mind. 

Or maybe they’ll stay secret forever, walking on the edges and in the shadows for the smallest and most important reason in the world. To be together forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about priest Krennic, all right? I'm not done with him yet. 
> 
> And yes, this may have been influenced a lot by Good Omens and every scant bit of literature I've read about witch hunts. Also a certain dramatic door opening image in The Crow. And a very stupidly wasted scene of Satanic sex in Metal Skin, so badly paced and filmed that I watched it with disgust and thought "Jesus, if you're going to film sinfully beautiful 90s Mendo having sex in a church, at least do it well! I could do this better! Urgh."
> 
> If they film it wrong, you write it better.


End file.
